


blinded by fireworks

by afrocurl, ninemoons42



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Clumsiness, F/M, First Kiss, Matchmaking, Meet-Cute, Mistletoe, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 18:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afrocurl/pseuds/afrocurl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Cross your fingers and hope for the best" is something their friends say on New Year's Eve. Moira and Sean find out what that means exactly, when there are kids running underfoot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blinded by fireworks

**Author's Note:**

> Written for our mistletoe kiss square on our collaborative trope-bingo card.

There isn’t much in her closet, and most of what she does have - doesn’t really fall into any sane definition of “dressing up”.

Not for the first time, Moira thinks that she shouldn’t have accepted the damn invitation in the first place - but then again, what would the alternative have been? She’s already spent a New Year’s Eve alone, and once is one too many times for her already.

There’s a plain little black dress buried beneath her practical suit jackets and button-down shirts, and she winces a little because it looks so unlike her, a little on the gaudy side, even though the only decoration it has is a stitched-on flower built up from little sequins and beads. Briefly she considers cutting the petals away, and briefly she considers adding to them.

But it’s half past eight now and she was expected at the party an hour ago, so she curses as she doubles up her arms behind her back to reach the recalcitrant zipper.

A little eyeliner, a little lipstick, her best shoes, a plain silver chain necklace snug against her throat: nothing she’s wearing actually matches, but all of it is hers and only hers, so she will have to salve her pride with that. It will all just have to do.

Besides, by the time she gets to the party she’s pretty sure no one will be paying attention to what anyone’s wearing. Charles and Erik are well-known for throwing good parties, and by “good” everyone means “they have the best booze on the East Coast”, and she intends to take full advantage.

Sometimes it’s nice to have friends like that.

It’s hell finding a cab on a night like this, but Moira’s always been able to whistle them down without much effort; she tips as best as she can, and rushes up the stairs as soon as she’s buzzed in.

Only to stop at the door, surprise and an actual laugh bubbling out of her before she can even think to stop it. Normally Erik winnows down the guest lists to the barest minimum, but today the place is packed, wall-to-wall, and there are faces Moira’s never even seen before and faces she hasn’t seen in in the past year: Raven and Irene, who normally stay everywhere else in the world _except_ NYC; Emma holding court in one of the corners as she almost always does; Angel and Janos and several other people playing what looks like a particularly competitive game of Trivial Pursuit.

Charles himself is sitting atop one of the heavy desks in the library/office, improbably watching over a gaggle of teenagers and children, and directing their efforts as they worked on a book fort.

Moira takes the glass he offers her and looks around with interest, and a faintly mocking smile - that turns into something approaching consternation when she clocks the redhead crawling around on the floor.

What’s his name again? Cassidy? _Sean_ Cassidy. She can’t remember whether he’s with Emma or Charles or Erik: a colleague and a friend.

-

He’s only been at Charles’ and Erik’s party for forty-five minutes and he already looks like a world-class idiot, crawling on his hands and knees on the floor. He’s not _trying_ to look dumb, honestly, but it’s the very real by-product of one of the kids knocking out one of his contact lenses while another sprog investigated his Lonely Hearts Club Band jacket, undoing buttons and all.

All things being equal, he likes to keep his sight clear - for now. There’s always time for his vision to be impaired by alcohol, anyway, especially on a night like this when it’s a _requirement_ to begin the New Year not-sober.

The kid who half-blinded him - Kitty, he thinks, that might be her name - doesn’t even stay to help him look for his contact lens, hence spending the last twenty minutes feeling around on the rug for the missing thing - and praying to all gods and higher beings of the world that he hasn’t wound up crushing it after all.

“You look like you could use some help.” He only vaguely recognizes the voice from above him, and he tries to turn slowly, tries to be careful when he looks up.

Damn single contact.

“I could, though I don’t think anyone else should have to do my dirty work,” he says, settling on self-deprecation. Maybe it might actually pay off for him tonight. Maybe not. On New Year’s Eve, all bets are off.

“Newsflash, I work with Charles, we have a rota for doing each other’s dirty work - so I don’t mind,” the voice says before the person attached to it gets down to her hands and knees and meets his eyes. “I’m Moira,” she says as she tries to keep her hands away from his own.

“I’m Sean, and I think I remember you from a few years ago. I’m one of Erik’s lackeys.”

“I think I might remember that, but I also remember that those memories are mixed with about five pitchers of margaritas, so sorry.” She laughs, small and shy, and it makes him smile, despite the fact that he can just barely see her at all, though she’s only inches away from him.

“You’re better than me. I don’t remember what we drank that night - just that I woke up in Erik’s bathtub at some point.”

“I’m sorry I missed that part.”

“No, you’re not. But to get back to this, it’s all right, you don’t need to help. I’m about to give up anyway. I’ve been down here for almost as long as I’ve been at the party and still haven’t found it. It’s lost.”

“Never say never,” she says, just as she moves her hand to his left - and yelps. “Found it!”

“You, I don’t know how you do it, but thank you,” he says as he reaches for her hand. “If you can just let me go clean it off, I’ll be back in five?”

“Sure. I need to tell Charles something anyway. See you soon.” She gets up, graceful in her black dress, and walks over to Charles, who is still holding court with the kids.

Small mercies: Erik wears contacts and there’s cleaning solution in the bathroom. He does his best to put himself back together: contact lens back in, jacket buttoned back up - though he does feel slightly guilty that his Velvet Underground shirt is once again hidden from view. His slacks have seen better days, but there’s nothing that he can do without a lint roller. Then he heads back into the office, hoping that Moira’s still there.

Turning the corner, he’s surprised to see her chatting with Charles, though he’s not sure why. Avoiding as many of the kids as he can, he walks towards Charles and Moira, just before she nearly turns around into him.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, looking down at her feet, which are inches away from crushing a Hot Wheels car.

“No problem. You understand my earlier situation now?”

“I do, and I think that means we need to escape this place before we end up covered in silly string.”

“Then let me get you a drink as we do,” he says, stepping aside to let her walk past him.

They make short work of the bar, each grabbing a bottle of chilled champagne and weaving and ducking through the crowds to reach the windows by the fire escape.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this?” he says as he takes a pull on the bottle.

“Why? Too declasse for you tonight?”

“No, it’s just not how I’d want to talk to you again.”

“And how would you like to talk to me?” she asks.

“Any way but this,” he says with a shrug.

He feels relieved when she only raises an eyebrow at him, and then chuckles, soft and warm. “You’re really bad at this, aren’t you?”

“How’d you guess?”

“The jacket doesn’t scream New Year’s Eve and you look like you’re about to drip through your slacks.”

He looks down at his free hand and sees that there’s a neat damp handprint on his thigh. “Fuck it all.”

“Don’t worry, it’s cute,” she says, taking a pull from her bottle.

“Well, then, I’ll be here all night.” He puts on a grin that Erik’s told him is stupid but that he finds disarmingly cute.

“I like the sound of that,” Moira says, and from there, they fall into easy conversation as the party goes on around them.

Vaguely he hears people coming and going from the party at will; he’s too focused on Moira’s face and her voice to really pay attention. That is, until he feels someone pulling at his sleeve.

“What?” he asks, interrupting Moira in the middle of something. He looks over and sees Kitty next to them, one hand behind her back.

“I’m sorry about earlier, Mr. Sean,” she says. “Mr. Charles said I should bring you this.”

It turns out that she’s carrying a sprig of mistletoe.

Moira giggles, and then those giggles turn into peals of helpless laughter mixed in with Charles and Erik’s names, and all he can do is say, “Thank you, Kitty. We appreciate it very much.”

Kitty bounces away and he’s left to stare at what she’s left him in disbelief. He’s known Charles for five years now, and in all that time, he’s never known the man to be so overt with setting up anyone else. Maybe Charles has had one too many bottles of champagne, not that it really matters now.

“So what should we do with this?” he asks as soon as Moira’s done wheezing.

She looks at her watch before replying. “We’ve got two minutes until midnight, and it seems Charles wants us to have it.”

He actually feels his eyes growing wide. “We’re going to use it?”

“Why not?” Briefly, Moira’s smile turns pensive, weary, and he hates having to see her like that. It’s not a look that suits her at all. “I don’t think anyone should be alone on New Year’s Eve. That’s hell on earth, and I should know, I’ve been through it before. No one deserves that.”

Her logic is flawless - and it goes with his own, so he does what he knows is right. “Okay.” He hoists the sprig above them just as the rest of the room starts shouting, counting down the seconds.

Moira inches closer to him and just as his arm wants to give out from holding the little bit of bedraggled green leaves steady, the room erupts in cheers and applause, and Moira’s mouth is against his, soft and a bit unsure.

He smiles and pushes forward with a small, encouraging sound; the mistletoe falls to he knows not where.

-

Moira shivers when Sean touches her, when he puts his arms around her, and the world lights up around them, laughter and party poppers and people singing off-key.

She doesn’t know what makes her clutch back at him in return. All she knows is that she feels held down, anchored, caught and sheltered. The world is clear in her mind’s eye: Sean is the key.

They part to take a breath - and then Moira leans back in. This feels right, and this feels good, and from the way Sean is hanging on to her wrists she hopes he feels the same way.


End file.
